


Back to the beginning

by Sunshine170



Category: Fringe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshine170/pseuds/Sunshine170
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always comes back to this Olivia thinks. A man who wanted to walk with the gods, playing with her and the lives of those she loved in the search of an epiphany that would never come. Except this time she's not the one he wants...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Is it done?" Cutler asks.

"Yes sir? Feisty little thing, put up quite a bit of a fight. Little bitch socked me good."

"You didn't hit her back did you?" The other's man is sharp now, worried even. "I believe the instructions were clear on that front."

"I know… I know." He scowls in displeasure. "If it wasn't for that I'd have taught her a lesson believe me. Wanted to wring her pretty neck right then I tell ya. Shut her up good."

"Well you're not going anywhere near her neck…or anywhere else." He says coldly, seeing the unmistakable signs of lust flaring in the other man's eyes.

He was excited at the thought of it.

Cutler throws the bundle of dollar bills across the table carelessly. "For your troubles, now get out of here."

"But you said there's more work to be done."

"Not for you, not with that temper." He says evenly. "I can't work with people who're going to blow their gaskets off and I certainly can't have men like you around a young girl. This is not that kind of a job."

"Oh come on. I brought blondie here in one piece didn't I?" He protests.

"We're done here." The other man says simply, motioning for him to pick up the money.

He picks up the money, and gives him a sneering look. "You're afraid of the old geezer aren't you? A sicker whacko than me if you ask me. What does he want with a girl that age anyway?"

"That's not your concern."

Cutler watches him leave and picks up the phone.

"Sir…"

"Is it done?"

" Yes."

"And you have her? Safe and sound I assume."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Make her comfortable and treat her with care. Absolutely no force of any kind… and no physical harm must come to her under any circumstances. That is not negotiable."

"Yes sir. You want her to be intact for when we begin testing of course."

"Yes. But it's not that Cutler. "She looks so much like her mother…Its extraordinary really." He sighs in a wistful way. "She is my dearest friend's grandchild. She's like family you see. You understand don't you Cutler?"

He nods, not understanding in the slightest.

"Yes Dr. Bell."

* * *

It's a strange sensation that wakes Olivia up that morning. An odd sense of calmness mixed with an inexplicable anxiety.

She turns to Peter, still sleeping next to her, feeling immediately better by the sight of him. Reaching out with her finger, she traces his stubbled cheek gently, a smile pulling at her lips as she thinks of the wonderful soreness in her body from last night,

It's been some time since she's felt quite so… spent. Things had been so busy lately. They hadn't even had the time to eat a proper meal together, let alone do anything else.

Feeling her eyes on him, he opens his eyes.

"Good morning."

"Hmmm… very." He nuzzles her neck as he pulls her closer. "Best yet."

She lets him kiss her, even as she reaches out for her cell phone, sneaking a look at the time.

"Vacation's over." She says in a somewhat disappointed voice, as she looks at the window where the ivory curtains were tinted golden with sunlight.

"Not yet. We have three hours till check out."

"We also have a four hour drive till Boston." She flashes him a little smile, turning on her speed dial, to press the number 2 digit, before Peter stops her.

"You know she's going to hate it if you wake her up this early on a Sunday morning."

"I just want to check up on her." She ignores him. "She can go back to sleep after saying hello."

"Honey Etta's fine." He tells her, prying away the phone from her hands gently. "You can call her after breakfast. She'll be up by then."

"She didn't answer her phone yesterday night." She says giving him a look. "I called her three times."

"That's because she was out at her friend's party. I called her before we went to dinner. And she told me she was going to be there. It was probably loud and she mustn't have heard the phone ring. "

"And she didn't think to return my calls when she saw them?" She shakes her head, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that's sinking into her rapidly "She knows better than that Peter."

"It must have been late." He says closing his eyes. "She's a thoughtful kid and she didn't want to disturb us."

"You always find excuses for her don't you?" She smiles at him helplessly.

"And you worry too much." He mumbles, his lips finding her bare shoulders, as his hands move under the sheet suggestively. "Now how about we make good use of that do not disturb sign on the front door one last time before we get back to real world."

Olivia smiles, thoughts of Etta already melting away as he begins a delectable assault with his lips against her skin.

She'd call later.

* * *

"I hope you and your wife enjoyed your stay Mr. Bishop?" The receptionist smiles at him politely as she hands him back the credit card.

"Oh yes. Very much so." He smiles, as he signs on the receipt she hands him, stealing a look at said wife, who at the moment wore a grim expression and a distinct frown on her face, the phone pressed to her ear.

"I know it doesn't seem like it. But trust me we did." He sighs at the receptionist, handing her the slip before walking over to where Olivia stood next their overnight bags.

"You know that's not the look most women whose husbands surprise them with weekend getaways at five star resorts wear. They look happy… grateful even." He bends down to kiss her. "Not that I am expecting the latter."

She smiles against his lips. "I know. I am sorry. It was wonderful and I enjoyed every bit of it. I really did. Its just…."

"Can't get a hold of her huh?" He asks knowingly, as she puts the phone down in frustration. "She's probably still asleep."

"She never sleeps in this late." She shakes her head, lines of worry now clearly showing.

"First time for everything." He shrugs, picking up their bags as he gives her a comforting smile. "Come on, the sooner we hit the road, the sooner you can get home and yell at her."

 

* * *

 

"This is ridiculous." She huffs, as she eyes the mile long fleet of cars in front of them. "We haven't moved in over forty minutes. Are they even trying to clear the roadblock? I mean don't they realize people have better things to do than to be stuck in traffic."

"Liv…" He reaches out to hold her hand. "You know there's nothing anybody can do. We'll get out when we get out."

She shrugs it away, reaching for her cellphone for the ninth time. "I am calling Astrid."

"So she can fly in a helicopter and airlift us out of here?" He jokes.

"No, so she can swing by the house and check on our very irresponsible daughter." She says blandly, giving him a cross look. Her irritation was building up by the second, all the good mood from the trip evaporating.

"Olivia we're just half an hour away. " He tries to reason with her. "Astrid lives on the other side of town. It's going to take her forever to get to our place and all she's going to find is Etta sitting out on the couch reading or watching TV or something. Let's not bother her on a Sunday afternoon."

"Peter it's been over fifteen hours since I've heard from her. She's not answering her cellphone or the landline." She says looking at him with a concerned expression.

"I am sure there's an explanation." He smiles at her, unable to quell the anxiety, her voice triggers in her. "Look the traffic's beginning to move a little. We should be there soon."

It's another forty minutes before they can get home, by which time Olivia's anxiety has spiked to a level that would seem entirely unreasonable to anybody else. She literally exhales in relief, almost jumping out of the car the moment Peter pulls into their driveway.

He shakes his head but lets her go and follows in after parking the car in the garage and fetching their bags from the back.

"Etta, you're in big trouble young lady." He bellows in a mock angry voice when he walks into the kitchen. "Get your butt down here before your mom has an aneurism."

He waits for a second or two to hear his daughter's cheerful voice making its way down the stairs, or for the sound of Olivia's stern words. But all he hears is silence. After stealing a look into the empty living room, he makes his way upstairs to Etta's bedroom, hoping to find them both there.

All he finds is Olivia sitting on the bed, clutching what he recognized as his daughter's cellphone in her hands. Her face is pale, white as a sheet, voice trembling with what was unmistakably fear, as she holds the phone in her outstretched palm. "Her bed hasn't been slept in and her phone's here. And she wouldn't go to a party without her phone would she? And even if she somehow forget, she'd come back and get it wouldn't she? She'd have to have come home sometime in the night …."

"Liv where's Etta?"

"I knew something terrible had happened." She shakes her head. "I just knew it." She looks at him then, her expression crumbling in defeat.

"Liv…."

Her voice is nothing more than a broken whisper.

"She's gone Peter."

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

She doesn't know if she screamed when she realized that Etta was gone. She only remembers Peter shaking her as he asked her again and again what she meant while she sat there on the bed.

It had been so simple to put together really. The made bed. The cellphone lying on the floor next to the upturned dresser stool. The scattered jewelry everywhere, spilt out of the jewelry box that she'd bought for her only last year.

The awful feeling she had woken up with that morning….

It wasn't much. No one would think that much of it, easily attribute it to a messy teenager.

But Etta wasn't messy. She would never leave her valuables scattered on the floor like that.

And she wouldn't not take her calls. Not for so long.

"Do you think maybe she was out with a boyfriend?"

"Etta doesn't have a boyfriend." She says numbly, trying to pull herself together as she focusses on the agent in front of her who was interviewing her. She didn't recognize him. He wasn't anyone from her

division.

Dobson. He'd introduced himself a few minutes ago, from the missing persons division.

The house was teaming with CSU staff dusting for prints, looking for evidence. Peter was in the study with Broyles, who had come as soon as she'd made the call to the FBI.

"You're sure about that Agent Dunham?" He asks then, with a slight snigger that immediately raises her heckles.

"Are you implying that I don't know what goes on in my daughter's life?"

"Of course not mam. It's just that teenagers don't always confide in their parents about things like this."

"That's not the kind of relationship we have, where she would feel the need to keep things from us. If there was someone, Etta would tell me about it. "

Etta had told her, she thinks. Last week in the kitchen while they been chopping stuff for a salad. She'd told her about the boy who was in her music theory class and how he smiled at her an awful lot.

"Of course… I didn't mean to suggest. It's just that with a demanding job like yours and the added responsibility of motherhood, it's possible you might have missed…"

"My daughter didn't run away on the back of some motorcycle in some desperate cry for attention if that's where you're going with this Agent Dobson." She says irritably, thinking how anyone could

characterize motherhood as an 'added' responsibility.

Like being a parent was something people just did much like volunteer work, or a book club meeting.

"Right." He nods, swallowing noisily, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of her voice.

"What about ransom then?" He asks then.

"What about it?"

"Could money be a motive?"

She laughs mirthlessly. "My husband and I work for the FBI. What money do you think we have?"

"Agent Dunham, We're just trying to cover our bases here."

"Right. Go on."

"Now I understand from this schedule you handed me that your daughter attends the Worcester Academy? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"That's one of the most prestigious prep schools in Boston. Some of the richest kids on the east coast attend that school."

"Yeah so?

"So she must run in some high circles."

"I haven't exactly been quizzing her about the social backgrounds of the people in her life, but it stands to reason that some or several of her classmates might be from wealthy families." Olivia nods. "She has a lot of friends at school. She's well liked."

"I bet she is." He nods, eyes drifting to the pictures on the wall. "Pretty girl like her. Must be very popular with the rich kids. And you know how kids like that can get… with their partying and their recreational drugs."

"They're not all kids like that. Just because they come from well-to-do backgrounds doesn't make them all caricatures from some teen show." Olivia sighs, not liking the implicit tone of judgment in his voice.

"Of course. You're right." He nods, giving her a thin smile. "Your daughter also takes music lessons at the New England Conservatory?"

"Yes she does. Twice a week, since she was six."

"So I am just trying to understand here…."

"How we can afford such an expensive education for our daughter?" Olivia asks knowingly. "Isn't that what you're about to ask me? Not that it's any of your business or has anything to do with her kidnapping but Etta was offered full scholarships to both those places."

"A full scholarship?"

"I don't mean to sound like a gushing proud mother, but my daughter is an exceptionally gifted person." She says plainly, without a hint of emotion. "High intellect runs in her father's side of the family and as much as I would love to brag about her all of her medals and trophies, that's not going to help us find whoever took her is it? "

"Mam, all I am trying to do is establish a motive." He urges unconvincingly. "It's just the financial statements we pulled, are slightly atypical for someone placed in law enforcement. But then Fringe division employees are in a different income bracket from other sections of the FBI because of its elite status aren't they?' He says, his eyes doing a quick sweep of their tastefully decorated living room, before settling back on her.

"And…. your husband certainly makes top dollar doesn't he? Highest paid civilian consultant in the history of the bureau from what I hear."

"What have you heard exactly?" She asks getting the distinct feeling that this was getting maliciously personal. "If we started basing investigations on things people hear at the water cooler and pointless office gossip, then I'd say it's a sad day for the FBI wouldn't you. Because what Peter Bishop gets paid is based on an accurate and fair assessment of his wholly unique and irreplaceable skill set and expertise." She says coolly. "And since you're dying to ask but won't, his remuneration was not something I had any say or influence over. It was a decision made by the higher-ups in the Department of Homeland Security. Now tell me again how discussing my husband's salary is relevant to finding my daughter?"

The man looks like he's been slapped but manages to still give her a shitty grin.

"Agent Dunham, I am just trying to get a sense of the whole picture here. You know better than me, how much attention to detail matters." He says again in that whiny, I couldn't possible mean harm tone that was getting on her last nerve.

"And what is this picture you seem to be getting exactly?" She sighs, beyond tired at this point.

"You see, despite your logical and perfectly sensible explanations, to the outsider, it would seem like you had the kind of money that could make a lucrative ransom. Vacations at high end resorts, Private schools and conservatory lessons for your daughter who you said yourself keeps the company of very wealthy kids, high-value property in an upscale locality of Cambridge in addition to I believe the beach house you own near Grafton and some other very valuable financial assets from I can gather so far … like a collection of rare and old books that's been appraised at quite a high amount, expensive art, and some other collector's items."

The force of the envy coming off of him is almost palpable and it takes Olivia everything not to smack that fake understanding look from his face. But she keeps calm and nods, determined not to lose her temper. Years of working a male dominated environment had taught her that the slightest display of emotion, no matter how rightful and justified could easily be constructed as a woman simply being hysterical, her competence therefore naturally suspect.

And right now, she couldn't afford to be thought of less than. No matter how much all she wanted to do was break down and cry.

"Those items you're referring to belonged to my father in law. He left everything he owned, including the beach house you mentioned to his son as you'd imagine any father would. As for everything else, Peter handles all our financials. He has a keen acumen in those matters and with the investments and savings, he's worked on over the years, I suppose we might have more than your average public servants and I am not denying that, even enough to take vacations at high end resorts. " She says pointedly, letting him know she knew exactly what he had meant to accuse them of.

"But apart from Etta's college fund, there's no real money. Certainly not enough for a ransom  _despite_ however it looks to the outsider. "

He almost looks disappointed, like he'd been expecting her to get defensive. He nods then , looking to something else in his file.

"But it shows here that your daughter has another trust fund, a substantially large one with some very sizeable securities… high value bonds, blue chip stocks, even property…" His voice trails off, as he looks to Olivia for an explanation.

"That was established by Nina for Etta even before she was born. Peter and I don't control it and I have no idea what its worth or how big it is." She shakes her head, understanding only then what he was referring to. "We discussed it just that once when she told me she had created it, but I've never asked her about it."

"Nina as in…"

"Nina Sharp of Massive Dynamic. She was my legal guardian. She's Etta's grandmother in everything but blood."

The expression on his face is gob smacked.

"You're saying that one of the richest women in the world is part of your family and you still believe money had nothing to do with why your daughter was taken?"

"Yes."

"Surely an investigator of your caliber can't possibly…"

"Listen, I've had enough of this." She stands up, cutting him off. "I've answered every one of your questions with more cooperation than was deserved and it's been nothing but a waste of time."

"Mam, I am only trying to help you and your husband."

"No you're trying to help yourself." She says grimly. "You want a splashy case that'll make your career and your questions have been nothing more than one insinuation after another about my family towards something that makes all this business press worthy."

He looks struck, but masks it quickly with an injured but understanding expression.

"Agent Dunham, I understand you're upset and with your experience and position with the FBI, it must be frustrating to follow protocol, especially answering all those personal questions to a subordinate. Perhaps, it's best if I spoke with your husband instead."

"Why so that you won't have to deal with the cold bitch who made it big in the boys club anymore?" She asks, taking little pleasure in the guilty look on his face.

"That's what you're thinking isn't it? I know your type Agent Dobson. Unfortunately all too well and on any other day your pettiness would have meant next to nothing to me. But right now it's getting in the way of finding my daughter. My daughter's life which is in danger because of reasons that have nothing to do with what boy she was seeing or not seeing , or what fancy school she attends or wayward and delinquent company you think she kept. It doesn't even have anything to do with what her trust fund is worth or how much money we have as you so painstakingly have researched to find out all about. It has to do with motives you cannot begin to know and motives you don't have the clearance to know. So I am telling you for the last time. Don't get in my way. "

"Agent Dunham…"

"We're done here. I trust you can show yourself out." She says nodding curtly. "You can question Peter all you like if you believe I am giving you a hard time simply because I can. But fair warning Agent Dobson, my husband is not as patient as I am. Even less so, when it comes to his child."

* * *

"That man doesn't go anywhere near my child's investigation." She walks into the study, where Broyles and a visibly shaken Peter were, shutting the door behind her decisively.

"Promise me that he won't Philip."

"Olivia…"

"I am not asking." She says folding her arms across her chest. "I won't have self-interested and petty people like him looking for my daughter."

"Fine, we'll get someone else from kidnapping and missing persons. Someone better suited." He nods.

"No, we're not." She shakes her head. "This is a Fringe investigation and I am going to take lead on it."

"Olivia. I can understand what you're going through. But there's nothing to suggest Etta's disappearance has anything to do with a fringe event…."

"Of course it does." She cuts him off, her voice breaking. "You cannot really be so naïve after all these years to think that it doesn't. This is us we're talking about. Peter and me. Our whole lives have been nothing more than a fringe event."

"Liv…." Peter squeezes her hand gently as he walks over to her. "I know what you're thinking. But it's possible…."

"No. There's no other possibility." She shakes her head, turning to him, a furtive tear making its way down her cheek, one she can't fight anymore. "Don't you see? It's me Peter. I am the reason."

"Olivia…"

"It's because of me she's gone. They took her because of me."

* * *

She wakes up to a blinding white room and a terrible headache. Clutching her head, she rises slowly from the bed she was lying on, licking her cheeks from the inside to make the cotton mouthed feeling go away.

She blinks repeatedly trying to gain her orientation back, as she clambers to her feet unsteadily, almost stumbling before finding her footing. She takes a tentative step after another, the fog in her mind clearing up ever so slightly as she tries to place where she was.

But all there is white everywhere she sees.

There'd been a struggle of some sort, somebody grabbing her from behind and she's tried to get away, punched him blindly, even kicked him as hard as she could. Self-defense moves her mom had taught her.

But he was too big and he'd overpowered her easily, jabbed her with something , she realizes, as she feels the skin at the juncture of throat and shoulder blades, where it felt raw.

And then there'd been blackness.

She remembers being up in her room, getting dressed for her friend's Caitlin's party. She'd spoken to her dad just a few minutes before, promising him that she would check all the doors and windows before she left.

"I am not going to do anything insane just because you guys are gone for the weekend you know. I am sixteen, not stupid." She'd rolled her eyes, as he rattled on and on about all the dangers she was supposed to avoid that night.

"Sounds like you and I have very different ideas of what it means to be sixteen." He'd laughed. "Have fun sweetheart. Just don't do anything I did or tried to do."

"You're saying it wrong dad. It's don't do anything I wouldn't."

"No honey. I am saying it correctly. As it turns out, I was sixteen _and_  stupid."

"You sound so proud." She'd laughed.

"Au Contraire. If I had half your sense, I'd have saved myself so much trouble. But enough of that. Our table's ready, so I am going to have to hang up now. I'll see you tomorrow when we get back okay."

"Okay. Enjoy your evening."

"You too. I love you."

She hadn't said it back, it occurs to her, as a frustrated tear starts to make its way down her cheek. She'd been distracted, scrummaging in her jewelry box, trying to find the pair of earrings she wanted to wear to the party, her mind on several other things.

And now she was here. She blinks away the tears, distress rapidly replacing confusion as she becomes more and more alert.

She was here and she didn't know where that was.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

There are things about Olivia Peter understands at a visceral level, things that couldn't be attributed to working together for twenty years or living together for sixteen…

Being married to someone for a long time gives you insight, perspective, an intimate knowledge about the person who shares your life and your home and bed. When they wake up in the morning? How they prefer their coffee, how much leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor bothers them ( a lot) , what kind of pizza toppings they like.

Taking a drug addled foray into their mind and witnessing the inner workings of their consciousness gives you something else.

Watching them dither between awareness and lack of - wet, naked and barely lucid – four times in a row, risking brain damage and more, all in search of an answer to a question, tends to pretty much shatter any mystery.

It's not an ability he asked for.

He understands too much, he can do little.

And right now, she's breaking… quietly, slowly, imploding into a million pieces on the inside, while she sits there on the couch, answering questions as calm as she can be, like she'd misplaced a thimble and no more.

It's an impressive façade to the unknowing, good enough to fool even him if he didn't know her the way he does, bound as they are by that twisted history of suffering and loss and just plain weird, spanning timelines and universes.

In that respect, they are simply who they always have been, robbed of their layers, of the material, of the tangibles that time has bequeathed to them… love, marriage, child, domesticity.

Memory and identity….its what they share with no one but each other. And memory is what he has, of Olivia Dunham at 29, in a hotel lobby, calm and confident as she shakes his hand and introduces herself, while her eyes betray a fear that he was glad to have been ignorant to back then.

It's the same fear he sees now, of losing the person she loves more than anything in the world. He knows this fear well by now, it's his too.

She's terrified.

Not that he isn't. But he processes it differently from her, always has. Right brain- left brain. She lets her emotions drive her, where he pushes them down violently to allow for rational, logical thinking.

But they both pretend all too well at being fine, just fine thank you. It's a wonder the academy hasn't nominated them for a best performance award yet.

The house teams with agents, a few that he recognizes, most that he doesn't. These are not his people (His people work at clearance levels seven times higher than what's standard, he knows their names, fantasy football teams and favorite watering holes, has been to their barbeques and poker games and children's' birthday parties and invited them to a few of his own). They rummage through things carelessly, looking for clues.

It's invasive, having strangers turn his home upside down, turning over cushions, pulling out drawers and upsetting decorative accents that his wife and daughter had spent whole weekends putting together, sharing a rather keen penchant for decoration. It never occurred to him just how much of a violation it is and suddenly he feels bad for the countless times he's been part of these searches himself.

He'll worry about it later.

Right now he focusses on Olivia, her fingers smoothing over the hem of her green sundress she still has on from their trip. He'd seen a couple of the agents do a double take when they'd seen her first. Olivia Dunham, head of Fringe Division, queen of the 7th floor and the untold mysteries that got solved there, in anything other than formal work wear or the occasional cocktail dress she obliged for the FBI's black tie events in sandals and a strappy sundress, it's like being in high school and running into your English teacher at the supermarket.

You don't think of them as having lives.

Nobody notices him in his cargo shorts and flip-flops. Two decades of working for the FBI, running an R & D unit with a budget that could feed a small nation, seven commendations, two legitimate respectably earned graduate degrees and guest faculty status at MIT and he still won't dress the part, he still goes to work in jeans and sneakers, while his subordinates took orders from him, clean shaven in clipped ties and pressed suits, even when Nina asked him to consult on the occasional military project for Massive Dynamic and he's meeting with four star generals (he does that solely out of deference to Olivia and her relationship to her. Something about that company still hits a raw nerve with him.)

It's a matter of principle. The part of Peter Bishop that always wanted to stick it to the man, hates to yield to authority of any kind. Etta found it amusing, a smile lighting her face as she looked up from her bowl of cheerios when they made their way downstairs in the mornings, Olivia dressed like she was about to go run the country and him looking like he was going to spend the day writing novels at Starbucks while drinking fair trade coffee .

His hearts stalls at the thought of her. The fear, sharp, real…painful.

_He really thought he was done with this part of their lives._

Through the door, Broyles makes his way, a collective hush falling through the house, as they watch him enter. He's everybody's boss and the Special Agent in Charge of the Boston FBI field office does not make house calls for a kidnapping case. Their eyes meet over Olivia who simply gives him a nod of acknowledgment before turning back to the agent questioning her.

Peter nods then and motions for him to follow him into the study.

He pours him a drink from the decanter they kept there and then pours himself one for good measure.

It's an extravagance, the study, not just your standard home office, but old fashioned oak panels, floor to ceiling book cases, vintage chesterfield sofa, the works…

It had started out with nothing more than a crooked desk and a white board when they'd first bought the house. A place for him to get his geek on. But Olivia wanted to make it more. Bored and with too much time on her hands after she was forced into taking maternity leave in her last trimester, she poured her heart and soul into the room, deciding that their lives would be rendered incomplete if they didn't have a proper study.

"Quite a twist on the man cave huh?" He'd joked when she's finally let him see it, unable to hide how impressed he'd been. "It looks like one of the faculty lounges at Harvard."

"You come from a family of academics  _and_  you're half- British. This is exactly what you wanted all along." She'd shrugged with a decisive nod.

"Sometimes I worry that you know me too well." He'd chuckled, as she stood there in front of him, one hand on her incredibly pregnant middle, entirely proud of her handiwork. "How much did you spend on this? Because it looks like I'd have to perfect the process of alchemy in here to recover the investment."

"I spent what I wanted to." She'd dismissed him with a regal smile. "More than you certainly deserve."

"Looks complicated." Broyles nods as Peter hands him the glass, referring to the glass board, a mess of his equations, circuit diagrams and formulas, an order in chaos that's visible to only him.

"It's really not." He shrugs. "Just something I am working on." His eyes follow the writing in black marker, gaze furrowing as he sees red ink, an outward arrow drawn next to one of the lines with a smiley face.

_Your equation is unbalanced. You're welcome:_ )

Etta…he thinks, unable to help the smile. Always inquisitive, bright eyes alight with intellectual curiosity, a genetic inheritance passed down two-fold, the IQ may be his doing, but the burning need to know was all Olivia. Since she could toddle, she'd been coming in here, wanting to know, wanting to know everything, asking questions, seeking explanations.

He'd partitioned the board by half using red tape, exactly by half, (for she'd have noticed if she got the smaller part and there'd have been hell to pay) when she was three. They worked together, as he brainstormed theories and formulae while perched next to him on a high stool, she drew clouds and puppies and cows and her alphabet with her crayons. She was even kind enough to offer him feedback when she thought his 'drawings' weren't pretty enough, offering to make them nicer with her arsenal of Crayola.

He suppresses the memory. Focus _. Focus_. He tells himself.

"Who do you think took her? Do you think it has anything to do with an investigation?"

Broyles doesn't bother with the company line. No false assurances, no polite niceties. It doesn't mean he doesn't care.

On the contrary, he doesn't want to waste time.

He knows the reason they're already searching for Etta is because of him and because of Olivia and what she might do if anyone tried to use  _48 hours or more_  on her.

He pities anyone who tries to stand in her way.

"I don't think so." He shakes his head, sipping the whisky he barely tastes. Perfectly good twelve year old scotch, wasted on his anxious and frazzled nerves.

"Someone you put away perhaps? Maybe wanting to get back at you or Olivia?"

"It's unlikely." He frowns, mind running quickly through the crazy scientist list of recent years. "The people we put away are not your regular criminals. They're not motivated by retribution. People don't matter to them. Ideas do. But…"

"But?"

"I don't think there's no connection. It has to be something….something Fringe related."

"That man doesn't go anywhere near my child's investigation. Promise me that he won't Philip."

Olivia walks in, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Etta's angry, and tired and upset… and mostly just terrified.

This could happen. Her parents had told her, when they'd made her take those strange 'workshops' with Nina's head of security a couple of years ago, a hulk of a man, ex-CIA he claimed, who coached her about what she was supposed to do in a hostage situation, how she was supposed to behave with a captor and how she should code messages for help.

Something had happened, a colleague's eight year old son abducted by a man he'd arrested, found killed three days later, his body left on their doorstep.

Her mother had been beyond distraught, shaken and visibly unnerved and even though Etta had found the whole thing rather ridiculous, she'd sat through it for her mother's sake.

A sob escapes her as she thinks of her mother and what she was probably going through in that moment. Probably blaming herself endless for having left her alone that weekend, for daring to have thought about herself for a change.

It had been her idea for them to go away. A plan she'd hatched with her dad while they'd been in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago.

"What happed to your rule about never feeding Etta anything that came out of a ready to cook box?" She'd eyed the sauce pan suspiciously as he poured the concoction into a bowl.

"Rules are meant to be broken." Her dad had shrugged. "And I'd rather feed you this than break my other rule about never letting Etta starve. We've run out of literally everything. This is the only edible thing I could find in the pantry. "

He pushed the bowl towards her placing a fork. "Here you go, some high sodium, over processed goodness… all for you. Don't tell your mom though, she might just kill me."

She took the fork, scooping out a little bit of what was advertised as a pasta side of some sort.

"Gooey…" She'd grimaced, taking a tentative bite which she swallowed with some difficulty, as her dad dipped his finger into the bowl and bought it to his mouth, nodding in agreement.

"That's depressingly bad. Don't eat that kiddo." He pushed the bowl away from her as she'd been about to take another bite, grabbing his phone out of the pocket. "So much for a home cooked meal. I'll order us some pizza."

"Well at least you tried." Etta had given him a pat. "Get some breadsticks for Mom."

"I don't think mom's joining us tonight. She's stuck at the office."

"Again?" She sighed. "This is like the third time this week. I don't even get to see her anymore."

"I know. It's been crazy." He'd given her a glum nod. "I could only get away tonight because we're waiting on some tests."

"You guys need a vacation." She'd nodded somberly. "Like seriously. Or you'll drop dead from a heart something."

"Try telling that to your mother." He'd chuckled. "If I tell Liv that, she'll probably buy me an open ticket to the middle of nowhere and ask me to take one."

"It could be a surprise." She'd said, as the idea hit her. "For the long weekend? It'll be perfect."

"Olivia doesn't like surprises." He'd said skeptically. "She's gone on record about how much she doesn't like them."

"She'll like this one." She'd dismissed him, already thinking about ideas. "It'll be great. I'll plan everything. Just give me your credit card and I'll take care of the rest."

All she'd wanted for them was to have a little time to themselves, to relax and take a break. They'd been working so hard off late and her mother looked so tired…

And so she'd planned the whole thing, the hotel, reservations, researching hiking trails they could go on and restaurants they could eat at, psyched about how happy they'd be when they'd got back, rested and rejuvenated.

She hadn't counted on getting kidnapped…

She takes inventory of her surroundings, trying to remember her coaching, to see what she could use to help her situation. It's a strange room and if it wasn't for the fact that she was boarded shut from all corners, it wouldn't seem like she was being kept here by force.

Everything is white, the bed undoubtedly brand new, clean, very very soft with blankets and pillows. A closet with clothes, non-descript tanks and sweats, all in her size, underwear even.

There was a bathroom, which looked it had been sterilized twice over, with a full set of towels, high- end toiletries, organic like the ones she liked using, a toothbrush… _tampons_.

Somebody had thought of everything.

There's a meal tray on a desk with food in it. Salad and a sandwich, with a monogrammed paper napkin from the Oak Bar at Copley Plaza, she recognizes it from all the times she and her mom had Sunday Brunch there with Nina.

Next to it, a box of Godiva chocolate truffles on the desk, and some very fine books from the titles she could make out, wrapped up in a red ribbon, with her name printed on a gilded note card. She turns it over.

_For dearest Henrietta,_

_A peace offering to make up for the inconvenience of yesterday night. I trust you'll find everything to your comfort._

_You needn't be afraid at all._

_We'll meet soon_

_WB_

Her eyes sting with the tears making their way down her cheeks, as she reads the note, again and again.

The good news was she was going to be the most well taken care of hostage in history.

The bad news… Etta thinks with a sinking heart, all this only making her that much more scared that she had before.

Someone planned to keep her here for a long time.

 


	4. Chapter 4

How many times has she stood at this point?

She thinks, as she begins to gather things slowly, cleaning up the mess, putting photographs back where they belonged and stacking schoolbooks into place, a geometry case that'll need replacing because the edges of the perpendicular scales have not survived the FBI invasion.

They leave after two hours, without the prints they came to find or the DNA traces she already knew there wouldn't be.

And they leave her daughter's room looking like it got caught in a hurricane.

Its annoying. These acts of intrusion.

A stranger had been in her daughter's room, in her house. Had tainted it with his presence and it sickens her to think about it, brings memories of too long ago back to sear her.

She gathers the clothes tossed around and hangs them back in the closet, her hand rifling through the rack as she re-sorts in keeping with the color coded system Etta liked to keep her clothing in. It was very specific; a shelving logic that didn't serve any organizational purpose other than letting her show off all her pretty things, pastels to hues.

Strange are the priorities of a sixteen year old girl.

Olivia knows the affectations of her daughter well, her little vanities, her excellent ability to manipulate parental affection particularly her father's, to her advantage. She sees the casual arrogance with which she likes to show off her intelligence, with a superior smirk that comes with the knowledge in being right, without any deference to humility or to mortals of lesser acumen. With a liberal does of a charm inherited in full measure, it's a recipe for world domination.

The men that'll fall at her feet…she pities the fools.

Old Peter Bishop never left that metaphorical building, it would seem.

She strips the bedding to bare mattress, tossing every sham, sheet and duvet into the machine and then remakes it with care with a different set of linens , tucks in hospital corners worthy of a Stepford wife and arranges the throw pillows with a deliberateness she hasn't shown to bed making since her father the military man who was fastidious about such things died and let a poor replacement take his place in her life and her home.

Six year old Olive still refuses to forgive him for that.

It's a crushing sensation, and she sinks into the newly made bed with a defeated sigh.

Home is sanctuary; home is where you went to get away from the monsters.

It's the one thing that's supposed to be sacred. Supposed to be safe.

And now she'd lost that too.

Her eyes drift idly over the now orderly room, eyes running over things, souvenirs, pictures, signs of a happy childhood, a fairly angst free adolescence, barring the occasional crush and that uncomfortable awkwardness that comes from making the leap from child to woman.

Expensive trifles inhabit the space, evidence of parental indulgence , toys given way to teenage fancies but essentially playthings in the end, that she'd bought with a patient smile and a platinum credit card scattered all around, some well-loved, others barely used, gathering dust after the infatuation wore off. As much as she chided Peter for his lenience, the truth was she was really not much better.

Nothing was too great a cost, too extravagant to be unnecessary if it made her happy.

It's in their grain, products of flawed parents and broken families that had left more than disastrous marks on them, its natural, this tendency for overcompensation.

After all she was their only child.

Etta asked her once about why they had never thought about another kid. The one item on her Christmas list she'd dutifully put till the age of eight and her parents had never delivered on (Santa _Claus is a lie honey. He doesn't exist,_  Peter had made a point of telling her at two and a half before she could ever begin to believe in him _. Children shouldn't be lied to_ , he'd shrugged in defense.), the sibling she'd wanted for so long, till she realized that it just wasn't going to happen and stopped asking.

"Because, I could never love another child the way I love you." She'd told her, straight-faced and honest.

"You were always meant to be mine." She'd told her, matter-of factly, quietly…. fiercely.

"You were meant to be mine first."

Etta didn't understand. Etta  _didn't_  know, the changeling of fate that she was. It was never her burden to bear. Never for her to know, how had her mother held her the night she'd been born and cried, hard.

In relief, in disbelief, in gratitude, mostly in fear. Fear that closed up her throat every time she thought about her unborn child in those nine months. Fear that lived in her flesh for those 29 weeks she knew of her existence, doing everything she could to keep her safe in the womb, protect her from the dangers for the world.

And protect her from herself.

Olivia never thought about the other. An innocent life martyred to a scale of balance beyond anybody's reach, erased without a trace.

She pities the gone, mourns him even, in her own way, a son that might have been hers but for a different choice.

But she wouldn't feel guilty for what she had. She refused to. This was always meant to be her joy to share with Peter.

_Her_  future _, her_  family, nobody else's, interdimensional wars be damned.

Etta came to them, a function of two glasses of wine and a failed condom on a night when she was simply too ridiculously happy to be responsible Olivia, responsible Olivia didn't allow alien memories to overwrite her, this was the Olivia who was too mind numbingly in love -  _because he came back_  - to bother to look as she fumbled in her nightstand drawer and reached for expired contraception. (A day doesn't go by when doesn't thank her past self for that unusual lapse in judgment.)

And she brought everything good with her, everything pure, everything Olivia wanted so much and never dared to dream for.

And now somebody had reached in and robbed her of this…. the core of her happiness, the essential cog to the wheel of her life that had made every single thing that had ever happened to her from the day she walked into that daycare centre at Jacksonville worthwhile.

Every abuse, every heartbreak, every suffering … all melted, meaningless in the face of the child she loved, could call her own without hesitation.

Now gone….

How many times has she stood at this point?

* * *

She falls asleep in Etta's bed and wakes up to sunlight. Its late, the clock letting her know it's 10:30.

She makes her way to the kitchen. He's already downstairs, showered, dressed… poised for action.

"You let me sleep in." She tells him, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

" You needed to rest." He shrugs, not apologetic in the slightest.

"Did Broyles…"

"They haven't found anything yet." He finishes her thought for, passing her a mug of coffee.

"Right." She nods, sinking into the kitchen stool.

"School called." He tells her then, taking a seat opposite her. "They wanted to know why Etta wasn't at her Algebra test this morning."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth, without the details. They were suitably contrite and asked to pass on their sincerest apologies to you."

"I assume she gets a makeup on the test?" She chuckles sadly. "She'll have a nice fit if her GPA drops and she loses her scholarship. They're very strict about that."

"I think I saw something about extenuating circumstances in the handbook and I am sure this qualifies." He shrugs, his eyes distant. "And if they don't… she'll just have to slum it in good old public school I guess."

Olivia almost laughs. "I don't think your daughter is familiar with the concept of slumming."

"No…" He smiles agreeably. "She's quite the brat when she wants to be isn't she?"

Their eyes meet at that point, and they fall silent in an instant. He reaches out for her hand.

"We're going to find her Olivia. You know we're going to."

She shakes her head, her eyes proof of her disbelief. "I am tired of this Peter."

It's the fucking pattern of their lives, Loss and gain in some twisted game of musical chairs.

"Why would anybody take her?" She exclaims looking at him with an incredulous expression. "What could they possibly want from her?"

"That's what we're going to figure out," he nods decisively, "we find out why they want her, we find her."


End file.
